


This must be the place

by Laura Shapiro (laurashapiro)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Is Soft, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale has anxiety, Aziraphale is a Victorian heroine, Aziraphale is a repressed Catholic, Consent is Sexy, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a well-adjusted demon, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Good Omens Lockdown, Hand Jobs, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inexperienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), Lockdown Fic, Love Letters, M/M, Other, Romantic Letters, Victorian romantic traditions, abundant and exquisite food metaphors, author’s obsession with jam is showing, brief mentions of COVID-19 pandemic, but there are faint shades of ServiceTop!Crowley, eroticizing the act of romantic letter-writing, goodomens30, jam as a pretext for erotic encounters, jam as a token of love, just barely earning the E rating, post-coital jam sandwiches, romantic letter-writing, so are the authors, so is this story, so soft, there is absolutely no BDSM in this story, you won't even believe it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25339003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/Laura%20Shapiro
Summary: He hadn't known precisely what he was thinking, when he'd called Crowley yesterday. Of course Crowley couldn't come over. There were rules about that, as he'd pointed out. Aziraphale reflected that although most humans were indeed rather miserable right now, he was finding it personally refreshing to havehumanrules to follow. It reminded him very pleasantly of whose side he was on now.Naturally Crowley would suggest breaking the rules, the wily old serpent. But then he'd quite suddenly rung off, his velvety voice bidding Aziraphale good night after giving a sort of -- well, it wasn't an ultimatum, exactly. That wasn't Crowley's style at all. But. Well, everything was different.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 168
Kudos: 385
Collections: Hot Omens





	This must be the place

**Author's Note:**

> Only ileolai could make me write something this soft. I love you, my friend. -- Laura
> 
> Thank you Laura for being ever willing to indulge my every whim and fantasy when it comes to these two. ♥♥♥ -- ileolai

Twelve years ago, Crowley thought, when he knew the world was going to end, the first thing he did was call Aziraphale. 

He pressed his fingers lightly into the soil around the seedlings, just slightly moist and tender under his fingertips, not too dry. This tray held basil, a bit of a risk in this climate, but then he was taking these sorts of small risks these days. 

Yesterday, with the world not-really-ending but certainly looking somewhat the worse for wear, Aziraphale had called him. 

Crowley spaced the seedlings out, removing a few stragglers that weren’t quite cutting it. He misted lightly and put the tray on the windowsill. He debated a layer of clingfilm but decided it wasn’t right. What these guys really needed was to be outside. He should rig a window box. He hadn’t tried that before. But it was spring. A time for new things. 

It wasn’t like the Last Week of the World, when the angel had exhausted all possible avenues, when finally, when there was no other choice, he’d called Crowley. 

It was warm in the flat, but Crowley shivered. Not a day went by when he didn’t regret missing that call. He tossed his head, focused on what he was doing. 

Coriander next. The bright green scent tickled his nostrils. He didn’t care for the stuff himself, always tasted like soap on his tongue, but Aziraphale craved it, pad thai and curries, chutney and salsa verde. 

No, Aziraphale wasn’t desperate, this time. “I’m not miserable,” he’d said, and that was a lure if Crowley’d ever heard one. Crowley flared a little at the thought, how Aziraphale had accused him, predictable as ever, of trying to tempt him into breaking the rules. But it was Aziraphale who had called. Aziraphale who’d baited the hook. Waiting for Crowley to snap at it, as he always did, so Aziraphale could reel him in, as he always did. So Crowley could flail, pathetic and gasping, at his feet. 

Crowley moved on to the thyme, a hardier herb and already flourishing in its tray. It needed a lot more thinning out. He went to work, getting rid of the ones that weren’t pulling their weight, moving the ones that had potential to a new tray. “Work with me here, guys,” he said. 

The soil felt dry and silky as he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. Unacceptable. He fetched his watering can and sprinkled lightly at the roots, watching them sip. Taking what he was giving, thirstily. 

“Don't let me down now. I've been here for you. I know I haven't always been the best, but let's face it, you haven't been, either." 

Crowley moved all the trays near the windows and miracled to clean up. He stood staring out the window. The morning sun was bright in a parchment sky; far below, the streets of Mayfair were all but deserted, just a few emergency vehicles and masked essential workers hurrying along at safe distances. Another coffee maybe. A part of him he hadn’t listened to since 1989 whispered “cigarette” and he ignored it. 

He went to the kitchen, thought for a moment, and decided to bother with the French press. Something about drug rituals had always appealed to Crowley. He could click his fingers and create the perfect roll-up, latte, shaker of martinis, but there was something about going through the elaborate process of it all that was intricately soothing. Anyway, it kept him from obsessively checking his phone. 

He didn’t need to be obsessed. He measured the beans into the grinder, gave it a shake, and pointed at it until it whizzed (it wasn’t plugged in: there were limits). Aziraphale might not have worked it out, when he put down the phone -- might not have got what he was driving at. But in the end, they had always understood one another. 

The thing was. The thing was. The kettle heated to optimal temperature and Crowley poured the water over the grounds. The second-best smell in the world caressed his insides. He set his watch for 3 minutes and 45 seconds. 

The thing was. Aziraphale had to get there in his own time. Crowley knew that now. It was like the End Times. These things couldn’t be rushed. If Crowley pressed him, he’d retreat. If Crowley tried to control him, the whole thing would fall apart, and he’d be left with ashes. 

If he waited...he bit his lip. He was always waiting for Aziraphale. But he could wait, he knew it. And Aziraphale knew it too. 

The rewards of waiting were obvious, if not immediate. That smile, for one thing. Those sea-bright eyes. The musical voice, ranging the scale in its happiness (his ear still crinkled a bit from the call yesterday, those sonic angelic vibrations). Above all, Aziraphale would be _ready_ for him. Ready for what came next. 

Crowley’s watch beeped. He pushed the plunger down and managed to avoid splashing scalding coffee all over his hand and the granite countertop. Looking like it might be a good day. 

Crowley thought of how he’d invited Aziraphale back to his, after the world didn’t end. How hope and desire had flared in the angel’s face, more plaintive than Crowley had ever seen it, before he went on about _sides_. And how gentle he’d had to be with the angel in that moment, to remind him of what he’d lost -- what they both had. 

It wasn’t like that now. Now it was up to Aziraphale to do the inviting, and Aziraphale would work that out in the end. But it was still up to Crowley to be gentle. Patient. He could do it. It would be worth it. 

He took the first, best, sip of his coffee. In his back pocket, his phone buzzed. 

\-- 

_Good night, angel_

It had been just over twenty-three hours, but Crowley's voice was still caressing Aziraphale's ear, a dark, warm, shivery feeling like bitter chocolate melting on the back of his tongue. 

Aziraphale glanced down at the remains of his latest creation, a hazelnut-almond dacquoise. It had not been something he'd have wanted to present to a guest, being a bit lumpy and lopsided, but it was quite delicious and he was eager to attempt it again. 

The satisfaction of a job well done (well, somewhat) was elusive and transitory, Aziraphale thought, bringing the plate into the kitchen and adding it to the teetering pile. The cakes weren't hitting the spot just now. 

He tottered back out into the shop, then over to his desk. The sofa, its paisley throw still askew from the last time Crowley had sprawled across it, looked sad and empty. Aziraphale's eyes glanced over to the desk and he yanked them away. No no, not now. 

Tea. A cup of tea would be just the thing. 

Turning back toward the kitchen, his toe scuffed softly at something and Aziraphale bent down to see the balled up sheet of paper, his finest hot-pressed writing paper, at his feet. 

Sighing, he picked up the aborted draft and dropped it into the wastepaper bin. He had been working on it ever since putting down the phone and he was no closer to getting it right. 

Aziraphale switched on the kettle and tugged at his waistcoat. He had thought it would be easier than this. It wasn't as if he and Crowley had no history of correspondence. And now no one was watching. 

He hadn't known precisely what he was thinking, when he'd called Crowley yesterday. Of course Crowley couldn't come over. There were rules about that, as he'd pointed out. Aziraphale reflected that although most humans were indeed rather miserable right now, he was finding it personally refreshing to have _human_ rules to follow. It reminded him very pleasantly of whose side he was on now. 

Naturally Crowley would suggest breaking the rules, the wily old serpent. But then he'd quite suddenly rung off, his velvety voice bidding Aziraphale good night after giving a sort of -- well, it wasn't an ultimatum, exactly. That wasn't Crowley's style at all. But. Well, everything was different. 

The kettle boiled and Aziraphale went through the process automatically, warming his cup, scooping the leaves, pouring the water, waiting...Crowley was waiting. Waiting for him. That, he reflected, wasn't really all that different. Hadn't Crowley always been waiting for him? 

Aziraphale had only one day left and then he'd lose his chance. Crowley would sleep for almost two months -- nothing, really, in the scheme of things, but Crowley had made it plain what there was to do. What the rules were. And Aziraphale could still feel the heat of his voice. 

He fished out the tea strainer, added his milk, and carried his mug out to the desk, setting it carefully on a porcelain saucer. He pulled out his chair and settled. After a moment's thought, he let out his wings, stretching them wide with a sigh and letting them drape behind him. 

He reached for his pen. He had made this one years ago, from one of Crowley's feathers. He'd mentioned to him -- must have been sometime after the war -- that he'd missed writing with quills and that he always felt a bit odd using his own feathers, and Crowley had been ever so generous about it. He'd kept Crowley's beautiful feather, glossy black with striking green and purple highlights, almost like a peacock's (oh, what would Crowley say to _that_ ), renewed with miracles ever since. 

Aziraphale drew his hand smoothly down along the fine-grained cream-coloured laid paper. The buttery texture was soft against his fingertips, the sound a whisper, a breath. The pen dipped into the ink, a wet kiss, a tiny drop rolling gently off the tip, its slightly sticky texture leaving a glossy trail on the nib as the droplet fell into the well. 

_My Dear Anthony --_

Aziraphale paused. He had earlier rejected “Dear Crowley” as too informal, and “My dearest,” as both too familiar and far too forward. He still thought “Crowley” in his mind, the habit of so many years being hard to break, but “Anthony” was the name Crowley had chosen for himself, and Aziraphale would come to cherish it as he had cherished each of his others. 

_Perhaps you have been assuming that, given recent events, and our late adventures, I would find myself more than usually susceptible to your wiles. Indeed, such a request, although under the current circumstances a very serious one, could not, did not, entirely surprise me._

_Indeed, how could it? When, from the beginning, you have ever been three steps ahead of me, winding along a circuitous path of which I could never see the end, calling over your shoulder, come, here’s a thing you’ll like, or hey, this isn’t so bad when you get used to it. Leaving in your wake a heady miasma of shed illusions and barely-graspable dreams._

Swallowing, Aziraphale put down his pen and wrung his hands. This wasn’t going precisely the way he’d intended. He looked down at the crumpled remains of previous drafts. He didn’t want to start again. This was better, much better than he’d done before. His palms were sweaty and he wiped them with his handkerchief before grasping the pen again. 

_You cannot but have observed the effect you have made upon me; not only the gradual, perhaps inevitable, crumbling of my restraint, but the ongoing and undoubtedly equally inevitable increasing of my esteem. I cannot withhold such admissions from you after the proofs you have shown of your attachment._

Aziraphale pushed up from the desk and walked briskly to the kitchen. His heart was hammering. Proofs of Crowley’s attachment, drat them both, were plentiful and at the moment seemed shockingly easy compared to writing this blasted letter. Crowley was a demon of action. But they were separated now. They had only their words. And Crowley had made it plain that it was up to Aziraphale to speak. 

He marched to and fro a half dozen times, discovered himself nibbling a biscuit, then had to wash his hands and face to prevent crumbs and butter besmirching the letter. Right. Back to it. 

_From the first, we have always understood one another._

The scratch of the pen against the paper sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. 

_You are not someone who gives an ultimatum. Nor do you, I think, deliver deadlines. You do not demand -- you have never demanded anything of me -- you insinuate. In this, if in nothing else, you and I are alike._

_Perhaps, and not without reason, you have grown weary of looking over your shoulder, waiting for me to match my pace with you. Or perhaps, and quite rightly, you now understand how very deserving you are of time, attention, and care --_

He was shaking. Aziraphale’s hand faltered and he almost made a blot. He pulled back hastily, laying the pen down and then taking it up again to wipe it, putting it back down. His fingers traced the length of the quill, the velvet texture of Crowley’s feather, so like his own and yet different, slick and glossy where he was soft and fluffy. He imagined for a moment sliding his hand into Crowley’s primaries, his fingers sinking into the rich rippling heat, Crowley’s face going slack with bliss, and felt colour rise in his cheeks. 

_\-- deserving of all the risks of a truly open heart._

_Permit me this liberty, then, to reveal to you all that you must have guessed. That you own me, body and soul. That I am utterly devoted to you and have always been so. That I can think of no true happiness or comfort without your presence in them, and that I would do everything in my power to bring you all the happiness and comfort you deserve, should you come to me. I offer you myself, and a home, now and for as long as you will have them. Dare I hope that you will permit me to call you mine?_

Aziraphale gasped, his hand fluttering to his chest. He had not known, when he started, that he would end up here. The ache in his breast pierced him, but he knew more pleasure than pain. His skin was tight and hot as though he stood before a fire, and it was not an inferno but a hearth. He had written of a home for Crowley, a home here in the shop and in his own heart, and he was at home to his own feelings now, at last, at last. 

_Tell me I am not too late. Tell me there is still hope. One word from you will relieve my agony._

_Until then, I am, and ever shall be,_

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale_

He bit his lip. He’d always rather liked his name, but now he wished he had another name to offer, a way to match the intimacy of the new name Crowley had shared. It was only right. But, in the end, Aziraphale was all he had to offer. 

He read over the letter, smiling and blinking back tears. He opened his flower album and selected a sprig of pressed hawthorn, collected at a visit to Kew. "Gay was the love of paradise he drew," he mused to himself, as he folded the letter around the flower and sealed it daringly with green wax. Then he picked up the telephone. 

\-- 

"It's me." 

"I know," Crowley said gently. Aziraphale sounded nervous -- more nervous than usual. But he’d picked up the phone in the first place, so they were getting somewhere. 

"I've been thinking, well, it isn’t as if you’d have to interact with anybody to come here, and we’ve both been keeping safely to ourselves since this whole thing started. You said so, when we talked earlier, that -- that you hadn’t been out and about. So we really wouldn’t be, technically, breaking any rules if -- that is --” Crowley could hear the softest click of Aziraphale wetting his lips. “If you'd like to come over -- I-I wouldn't mind." 

Something bloomed in Crowley’s chest. Message received, then. At least in part. "Do you want me to?" 

There was a pause. Crowley could see Aziraphale tugging at his lapels, adjusting his waistcoat, straightening his tie. 

"Well, you do have a tendency to oversleep, my dear, and I wouldn't want you to miss the flower festival, you get so cranky, honestly --'' Aziraphale’s voice was rising in pitch and speed, all his tells in full evidence. 

"Forget about me. What do you want?" 

"Anthony, I can't forget about you. That's -- that's the whole point." Aziraphale’s last word was followed by a sharp intake of breath. 

Crowley almost folded, then. He felt warm in Aziraphale’s regard, and fuck, he loved Aziraphale so much. Aziraphale couldn’t forget about him. Unbelievable. But they’d come this far, he wasn’t about to let it drop. "Angel. You've got to say it. What do you want?" 

"I want you here. With me. For -- for the duration." 

"The duration. Right." 

"If -- if that's all right with you." 

"Yeah, 'course, that's all right with me. I'll be there in --” Something chimed faintly, then loudly, in Crowley’s brain. “Wait. Did you just call me --" 

"I told you I'd get used to it," Aziraphale said, with an airy chuckle trying to cover his obvious anxiety. 

His brave angel. 

As reassuringly as he could, Crowley murmured "Ten minutes, angel." 

\-- 

"I heard there was cake." 

Aziraphale, arms full of empty plates, looked up to see Crowley leaning rakishly against the arched doorway, arms folded. 

Aziraphale had often been surprised by Crowley's grand gestures, and shocked by the intensity of his own feelings in response to them. But nothing compared to the way he had worked himself up over the past couple of days, as everything he’d tried to squash down for thousands of years came roaring to the surface. And now here was Crowley, with empty hands, at two metres away closer to him than anyone had been since the lockdown started. Although, he reflected, Crowley had always been closer to him than anyone had ever been -- even at the distance of miles and centuries. 

"Oh, hello." 

"Wine's in your cellar." 

"Showy," Aziraphale said archly, although he imagined Crowley just didn't want to be bothered struggling through the door with a case of it. "What did you bring for us?" 

"Sancerre. Domaine Fouassier. Like we had in France." 

"With the crêpes!" Aziraphale sparkled at the memory. "You old romantic." 

Crowley leant down to grab the handle of a single, streamlined, wheeled suitcase -- all metallic like something from a heist film. He was blushing, Aziraphale could see, smiling with just one corner of his mouth, and turning that corner down toward the suitcase as though he could hide his expressions from Aziraphale after all this time. 

But, standing up again and clutching the bag handle, he hadn't moved into the room. He stood there, regarding Aziraphale for a moment, and then with his free hand reached up and removed his glasses, putting them into his jacket pocket. "So. Can I come in, then?" 

Oh, come in, come in, Aziraphale wanted to shout. Come in and never leave, come in and hold me and make everything okay, for ever. 

"Of course, my dear. Why don't you put your bag, erm --" he hadn't thought about it, of course Crowley would bring a bag, how could he have been so stupid -- "next to the sofa for now, and I'll open one of the bottles you brought." 

He bustled to his wine cellar, looking over his shoulder to see Crowley assume his usual maddening sprawl on the sofa, knees wide, one arm draped across the back, his whole languorous body an open invitation. 

"Did you manage to avoid any trouble on the way over?" Aziraphale called from the kitchen as he hunted for the corkscrew, eventually finding it under the Meiji cake plate. 

"What sort of trouble do you expect me to get into, violating the two-metre rule with a post box? No one on the roads." 

Aziraphale handed Crowley his glass. Crowley was careful, he noticed sadly, to avoid brushing hands. "You're a demon. I'm sure you could think of something." 

"Retired demon," Crowley said, raising his glass. 

"Very well, have it your way. Retired demon." Aziraphale offered a small smile, meeting Crowley's eyes. "To retirement." He took a sip and rolled the Sancerre around on his palate, chewing thoughtfully. 

"Needs a moment to breathe." Crowley observed, sucking in his cheeks, artfully showcasing his cheekbones in the process. 

"Don't we all," Aziraphale said, a moment later realising he'd done so out loud. "Oh," he said, coming to his senses, "I forgot the cakes!" Crowley rarely ate anything, but he had asked about them. And perhaps, being retired, he would allow himself to indulge. "Would you like a sample, my dear?" 

Crowley assumed the demeanour of bewilderment Aziraphale associated with ill-informed upstarts presented with lengthy wine-lists and obsequious sommeliers. "Sure. What do you recommend?" 

"Well, I know it's dreadfully out of fashion, but I am quite proud of my Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte. Though I know you're not overly fond of very rich desserts. Perhaps the Welsh cakes would go better with the Sancerre?" 

Crowley gave him a soft smile, the corner of his mouth lifting just a touch. Aziraphale was familiar with this smile, of course; he had catalogued it and stored it away along with all the others (not that Crowley smiled often, more was the pity). This one meant Crowley was feeling both fond of him and amused by him, but not in a mocking way. This one meant, _I find your foibles charming_. Aziraphale relished it. It made him loath to leave the room, but he went to fetch the Welsh cakes anyway, setting them in the oven to warm while he found plates and butter and jam. 

The shop was still a bit of a wreck, if he was honest with himself (and now that he’d started, he might as well make a go of it). When he’d rung off earlier, he’d looked around the place and realized that his carefully cultivated clutter had devolved into a chaos of cake plates and crumbs. He’d had only a few minutes to tidy away the worst of it before Crowley arrived -- choosing to do so the human way, idle hands being the devil’s playground and so on. 

The kitchen was, frankly, a disaster, but the buttery aroma of Welsh cakes filled the room and his Habsburg serving tray looked cheerful and welcoming. 

Crowley had crossed one ankle over the opposite knee and was lolling his head over the back of the sofa, but when Aziraphale sat down beside him -- daringly, closer than before -- he slowly uncrossed his legs and lifted his head. 

Offered a plate, Crowley simply picked up a cake in his fingers and spread it with jam on the palm of his hand. Aziraphale watched, fizzing oddly at this reversal of their usual roles, as Crowley took a respectful bite. 

"There...flowers in this?" 

"I'm so pleased you noticed! Yes, it's strawberry-rose jam with lavender essence. I picked it up at Waitrose shortly before everything shut down." He watched hopefully as Crowley munched. "Do you like it? It's organic." 

"Everything's organic, angel." 

Crestfallen, Aziraphale mumbled, " _I_ thought it was romantic." 

''How is jam romantic?'' 

Aziraphale's face must have shown his disappointment, because Crowley's expression crumpled a bit, and his eyebrows rose into the wide, arched expression of concern that had only become familiar over the past few years. "Sorry. You put out a lovely little spread, here. Don't want you to think I don't appreciate it." 

He knew Crowley did appreciate it. Crowley had even been eating the cakes, not just making a show of tasting them. "Do you know, I think this is the first time you've eaten something I've made." 

Crowley swayed in surprise. "Is it? Not even a sandwich?" 

Aziraphale chuckled. "Buttering a baguette for you hardly counts, my dear. These were actual work." 

"Tasty work," Crowley said, smearing another cake liberally with jam and taking a bite. 

Aziraphale could feel himself beaming. What a new beginning this was. But some part of him resisted. 

"You know, since we've decided to, er, bend some of humanity's rules --" 

"You've decided," Crowley said quietly. 

"Since I've decided -- for the time being -- and since we aren't bound by our former rules anymore, well...it occurred to me that it might be helpful to understand. Er. I'd quite like to know what the new rules are." 

Crowley's eyes were molten honey in the morning light from the oculus. His face was softer than Aziraphale had ever seen it. "There's only one rule, angel. You can have anything you want. But you have to ask for it." 

Aziraphale’s mind swirled with possibilities, threatening to overwhelm him. He had wanted -- oh, he wanted -- so many things, for so long. Forbidden images jostled one another for prominence, and he felt himself flushing, partly in the raw desire for it all, but partly in consternation at having, at last, to make a choice. 

There was one thing, though. A traditional starting place. 

"Please, will you kiss me?" 

Crowley's face grew softer still, a look almost heartbroken in his stricken eyes, his slack mouth. "Oh, angel. Always." 

Aziraphale was fidgeting with nervous hands at the hem of his waistcoat. Crowley's long, cool fingers closed over his, stilling their trembling. He lifted Aziraphale's right hand and turned it, dropping his eyes so Aziraphale saw a rare glimpse of Crowley's long lashes at the same moment as he felt his hot breath over his palm, and then the soft press of Crowley's lips there. The slow roll of tenderness nearly overset him. 

A tiny sound escaped Aziraphale and so it was upon parted lips that Crowley's mouth then descended, a gentle brush of skin, warm and rich with Crowley's scent surrounding him. The twin sensations of excitement and complete comfort swirled through Aziraphale, a double helix. Two twining serpents. Two pairs of wings. 

Crowley pressed his lips again, so softly, the heat of his breath feathering over them. And this time a sound escaped Crowley's throat, low and strangled, and Aziraphale's heart rushed up to his throat in a divine throb of compassion and wanting. 

When he had allowed himself to imagine this in his most secret thoughts, he had brushed the image away before it ever resolved into detail. Now, he tasted the sweetness and acidity of strawberries on Crowley's inner lip, the unctuousness of butter on the edge of his tongue that was only just dipping in to taste his. 

Crowley's own flavour, salt and smoke, and a hint of umami, deep and rich and irresistible enrobed it all. Aziraphale found himself clutching at Crowley's shoulders, fingers digging into his jacket, not trying to pull him closer so much as desperate for something to hang onto. That something, as ever, was Crowley. 

He moved his tongue along Crowley's bottom lip, and Crowley sighed, backing off to let him explore. Aziraphale thought to open his eyes at the weighty sound of that sigh, and noted that Crowley's eyes were closed, his long lashes flickering embers in the lamplight. Aziraphale had never seen him look so vulnerable, not hotfooting down the aisle of a church nor on his knees at an airfield. Aziraphale licked Crowley's lip, drew his teeth across it, sucked it into his mouth. Crowley groaned again, and Aziraphale could feel the tension in him as he reluctantly released his lip. 

Crowley kissed him again, one big cool hand on his jaw, tilting his head and thrusting his tongue forward to roam over Aziraphale's, opening him up, showing his hunger but demanding nothing. Aziraphale was suddenly desperate to feel his hands on him, desperate to put his hands on Crowley. But he also wanted this, and only this, for ever. 

A large part of his brain still could not fully comprehend that this was happening. He went still, trying to think. There ought to be rules on how to proceed from here. 

"Looking for something, angel?" 

"I -- hmm?" 

"What do you want?" 

Aziraphale blinked, one hand fluttering to his mouth. His lips tingled, and with the one part of his mind available to him he knew that he wanted to be kissing Crowley again as soon as possible. But that was the only thing he could think. 

No one had ever asked him what he wanted. Even Crowley. Crowley had suggested to him things he might want, had offered him things he thought he might like, should (not) enjoy, would be tempted by. Things Crowley wanted him to want. Things Aziraphale admittedly often did come around to wanting himself, in the end. 

But even Crowley had never asked him what he wanted, and then sat there, waiting for an answer. 

Aziraphale struggled, overwhelmed as he'd been an hour before, pouring himself into the letter that Crowley might now never see. Everything he'd ever wanted was here, in his hands, if he could only speak. 

In his hands. 

One hand still at his lips, he moved the other from Crowley's shoulder to stroke down his arm, then back up again, feeling the corded strength under his palm. 

"Touch, Aziraphale? Do you want to touch me?" 

"Y-yes, I --" he faltered. 

"You can. It's okay." Crowley exhaled heavily. "More than okay." 

Aziraphale slid his hand beneath Crowley's jacket, feeling him warm and solid through the thin, clinging fabric of his shirt. He leaned in and pressed his mouth once more to Crowley's, cupping the back of his neck, thumb stirring the smooth hair at his nape. Aziraphale's hands crackled with life, fingertips humming with sensation. 

His hands so full and vibrant, still he somehow felt bereft. "I w-" he whispered brokenly against Crowley's lips. 

"Anything you like," Crowley murmured against his cheek. 

"Please," Aziraphale said. "Please touch me." 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” 

"I -- I'm --" Aziraphale hazarded a smile. He felt terribly awkward all of a sudden, and frustrated with himself. He’d had beautiful and irritating thoughts about this very thing for centuries, and now those thoughts -- that he had tried so hard and so fruitlessly to stamp out -- had evaporated. "I'm not sure. I'm so sorry." 

"It's all right." Crowley's hand rose up to Aziraphale's chest and slipped under his lapel, mirroring Aziraphale's hand on his own chest. "What if I just -- is this all right?" 

Aziraphale let out his breath all at once, a great paroxysm of relief at having this choice made for him. "Oh, thank you. Yes, yes, that's -- oh," he said in surprise, as his fingertips brushed Crowley's nipple, and Crowley's brushed his. A current rippled through him. 

Crowley wrapped his other hand around the back of Aziraphale's neck and pulled him in for another kiss, nibbling this time, his sharp teeth prickling and softly pinching at Aziraphale's lips, jaw, and throat. Meanwhile, his hand traveled Aziraphale's chest and shoulder, painting long strokes that were both soothing and rousing, until Aziraphale felt petted into bliss, purring like a cat, wanting to bite and scratch like one. 

"Like that, do you?" Crowley asked, low in his ear as his teeth fastened on the lobe. Aziraphale shivered and pressed closer. 

"Mhm," he said faintly. He nuzzled against Crowley's lips, his hands skating over Crowley's chest and then curling, clawlike, to clutch at the flat planes of muscle. 

"It's okay. Dig in, if you like." Crowley's voice was a hot whisper against his throat, a trail of kisses down to his collar. It was delicious. It all was. 

Aziraphale's hands were hungry. His body was alight all over and he had no idea what to do next, or if it was right to do anything at all in this moment. Flooded with sensation, he sat still, Crowley moving warm and slow under his hands. 

"All right, angel?" 

"I..." 

"We can stop, if you like. We don't have to --" 

"No -- no, this is...I like this." 

Crowley's fingertips were under his chin, lifting his face. That golden gaze, the pupils dilated, regarded him with concern. Crowley's brows were drawn. "Angel. I want this. But this only happens if you want it too." 

The care in Crowley's face brought Aziraphale back to himself and his heart pained him, for a moment. "My dear, I do want this. I want you. I've only ever --" the words thickened in his throat, and he swallowed. Crowley's expression was rapt, waiting. As he had always waited. "Only I don't know quite what to do." 

Crowley brightened then, a spark of relief, a dash of wickedness in his gentle grin. "Aren't you the expert? Aren't you the one who reads books?" 

Aziraphale, a bit relieved himself, was caught between a laugh and a huff. "You're the one who deploys temptations!" But he was sliding his hands over Crowley's shoulders again, wrapping one around the back of his neck. 

"I don't _deploy_ temptations, angel. I _am_ a temptation." Crowley nipped at Aziraphale's upper lip. 

Aziraphale gasped and dared to lick into Crowley's mouth, pulling him closer. Crowley's hands rose to rake through his hair, leaving wonderful glowing trails of sensation along his scalp. The forked tongue flickered along his and he was again desperate for more sensation, more of Crowley against him, just as Crowley broke the kiss. 

"How is this? My hands in your hair?" Crowley dragged his nails through it again, lighting up every nerve in Aziraphale's corporation. 

"Gorgeous." 

"And you want my kisses?" Crowley gave him another, sucking his lower lip. 

Aziraphale met his eyes. "For ever." 

Crowley's face went slack for a moment and then Aziraphale caught the unmistakable glimpse of his smile trying to escape before Crowley pressed their mouths together again. "What about," Crowley said breathlessly, "losing some of these clothes?" 

"Losing? I'm very fond of this cardigan --" 

Aziraphale knew very well what he meant, of course, but sometimes ancient instincts _would_ take over. 

Crowley pulled back. "You can keep every stitch on if you like. Don't mean to rush you. Only I thought you might at least want to take off your slippers before I throw you down on the sofa." 

"Before you--" Aziraphale's heart leapt into his throat. 

"Unless you don't want me to." 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, toeing off his slippers in great haste. 

"Angel?" 

"Throw me down on the sofa." 

The smile that had been fighting to escape finally broke free, and Aziraphale laughed in delight to see it. Crowley wrapped his arms around him, a slow slither of each long limb, and pressed his smile into Aziraphale's neck. Crowley turned in his embrace, pulling their bodies flush from shoulder to hip as he nuzzled and chuckled into Aziraphale's ear and lowered him gently onto the cushions. Aziraphale had never fallen so softly. 

And oh, the weight of Crowley's body against him, firm pressure against his chest and belly, the sharp grind of shinbones as their legs tangled, the rich scent of Crowley rising up all round him. And Crowley hard against him, unmistakable. 

"Is that what you call throwing?" Aziraphale said, feeling daring as he rocked his hips ever so slightly. Sweat prickled under his arms. He luxuriated in the rub of Crowley against him everywhere, more than he'd ever dared hope for. He felt both subdued and roused, both soothed and extremely naughty. 

Crowley reared up like a cobra, grinding his pelvis against Aziraphale more firmly. "Why?" His gaze raked over Aziraphale's undoubtedly flushed cheeks and heaving chest. "Don't you feel thrown?" He began unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale's face. "Could do it again, if you don't feel sufficiently...manhandled." 

"Well, I--" Aziraphale began, but then Crowley was slipping the charcoal shirt off his shoulder with a half-shrugging gesture that was at once so endearing and so artless that Aziraphale quite forgot what he was going to say. 

It had been thousands of years since he had seen so much of Crowley's bare skin. Now, as he reached out with trembling fingertips to graze the place where the sparse dark hair gave way to the achingly sharp curve of his ribs, he found himself overwhelmed with tenderness, and he could scarcely breathe. "Oh, Crowley." 

He did not realise he had risen to grasp Crowley until he felt the knobs of his spine under his fingers, the warm strength of his back flexing and rolling gently under his palms. Aziraphale’s mouth was open against the divot of his long throat, between his collarbones, and Crowley was making one of his dear strangled noises into Aziraphale's hair. 

Crowley held him fiercely, arms winding round his back, and Aziraphale dragged his hands over as much of his skin as he could reach, the silk of his waist, the hard bumps of his ribs, the planes of his shoulderblades, the trim fine hair at the nape of his neck. His lips moved over Crowley’s chest, catching in the coarse hair, picking up new layers of his beloved fragrance. 

Aziraphale was so warm, too warm, now. And he had to feel Crowley properly up against him. Had to feel him skin to skin. He ached for it. 

"Darling, will you -- will you help me with these buttons?" 

Aziraphale would under normal circumstances not need anyone's help unbuttoning the frayed and fragile waistcoat. But he did not know how to break out of Crowley's embrace, even to undress, without risking the suggestion of rejection. And his hands were trembling so badly he thought he might make a mess of it. 

And-- if he were honest with himself-- the notion of Crowley's fingers at his buttons stirred an ancient longing, tried as he had to bury it. 

Crowley's hands slid to his shoulders, squeezed, and pushed them gently apart. Aziraphale looked up to see him positively beaming. 

"Angel. Can't think how I've survived this long. ‘Course I'll help with your bloody buttons." 

Crowley's long, delicate fingers pressed the top button gently through the frayed gap. Aziraphale felt the pressure against his breastbone, felt the thump of his heartbeat underneath. 

Cool fingertips stroked down the placket of his shirt -- he could feel the chill of them on his heated skin through the cotton. Crowley was moving slowly, reverently, to the second button. Aziraphale held his breath as his narrow thumb pushed the button free. 

"Here," Aziraphale said, letting go of a great gusty outbreath as he gathered up his watch and chain and placed them on the side table, allowing Crowley to proceed unhindered to the final button. Crowley’s fingers trailed down over Aziraphale's belly and he had a moment to remember Gabriel's noisome remark. He knew the shape of his corporation was no longer fashionable, but he had come to love it the way he loved the warmth of sunshine on his skin, the scent of old paper in his nostrils, the taste of crème anglaise on his tongue. 

Crowley preferred things that were fashionable. Perhaps he wouldn't -- 

Crowley had released the final button and was making a low noise in his throat, a sound Aziraphale had never heard before, as he gently pushed the waistcoat open and back over Aziraphale's shoulders. Aziraphale started to turn to shrug out of it, and Crowley dipped his head and raised a hand in a soft but unmistakable gesture. 

"No, no, don't move. Don't do anything. Let me --" he swallowed. "Let me." 

Crowley shifted on the sofa, turning Aziraphale slightly and moving behind him so he could draw the garment off of him. Aziraphale could hear his rapid breathing. He looked over his shoulder to see Crowley efficiently but carefully folding the waistcoat and placing it on the table, and then Aziraphale luxuriated in the sensation of Crowley pressed up against his back, relaxing in the warmth and solidity of his embrace as Crowley’s hands slid over his arms, under his braces. 

"Angel," he crooned, "always knew you'd be the death of me." His hands moved down over Aziraphale's chest and belly and then back up to his shoulders and behind him, crossing, following the line of the braces. "Fuck. I'd no idea. None." 

Crowley's hands were warming up as he stroked over Aziraphale's increasingly heated skin, and Aziraphale was desperate to be naked under those hands. He also very badly wanted confirmation of what he thought Crowley was feeling now, but he did not know how to ask. 

"Then you -- this -- I'm -- okay?" 

Crowley's lips were at the back of his neck, stirring the tiny hairs there with his warm breath. Then the tight pinch of teeth sent a bright piercing pulse to Aziraphale's groin. Crowley growled into the bite. "Aziraphale. You're everything. Everything. Want you so much." 

Aziraphale's skin was alive all over, almost itching under his shirt, prickling with sensation. He couldn't help but wiggle a bit as Crowley peeled the braces off his shoulders with a reverent sigh. They fell round his hips and Crowley touched them with a sort of wonder, before wrapping both arms around Aziraphale and pulling him closer, Aziraphale's head tucked under his chin. Breathing a long, shaky breath, Aziraphale reached up to pull open his bow-tie. 

"Ah," Crowley sighed. 

"I always thought you'd be watching, when I did that," Aziraphale murmured. 

"Knew you'd thought about it." 

Aziraphale tilted his head slightly, to brush against Crowley’s temple. "I did." 

“Angel,” a gasp of praise, feathering against Aziraphale’s neck, and Crowley seemed to go boneless for a moment, his head leaning against Aziraphale’s. With trembling fingers he slowly pulled the tie free from Aziraphale's collar, and Aziraphale stroked his bare forearms, running his fingertips through the red-gold hair, feeling the rise of gooseflesh as Crowley unfastened his first shirt button. Aziraphale heard the subtle sound of Crowley's hands sliding along the broadcloth as they moved down the placket, his fingers delicately pushing each button through its hole. 

The points of Aziraphale's chest brushed against the cotton, the shirt slid against the coils of hair there. He had never been so aware of this part of himself. 

The heat of Crowley's body pressed up against his back, the basket of Crowley's hips pressed against Aziraphale's seat, Crowley's hard length flush against him, yearning, as his own pressed fruitlessly against his trouser front. And just as he realized this, Crowley moved away to pull the shirt off his shoulders, and he was stripped to the waist. He felt Crowley's mouth on his bare back, between his shoulderblades, where the wings sprouted. 

A tiny cry escaped him. The touch of Crowley's lips there was exquisite, so tender in such a sensitive place. At this sound, Crowley kissed him again, and again, and again, light open-mouthed kisses all over his back and shoulders and Aziraphale gasped and moaned as the sensation washed over him, each kiss connected to the next, setting his whole skin alight. 

Aziraphale turned in his arms and brought Crowley down on top of him, fiercely, chest to chest, skin to skin, the way he'd been craving, and the sensation was so poignant he nearly wept. 

Crowley was hot against him, and the hair on their chests rubbed together, and Crowley moved and flexed, he was alive and urgent and oh, this was not enough, it could not be enough. 

He took Crowley's face in his hands and crashed their mouths together, going deep, wide open and stretching for more. Crowley's tongue slid along his, the flavour familiar now but still wildly exciting. Aziraphale pushed up against him and Crowley rocked down into him and groaned. 

"More," Aziraphale said against his cheek, "Please, more." 

Crowley groaned again. "What do you want? Gotta say it." 

It was so difficult. He felt so far beyond words now. "Trousers. Off." 

Crowley leaned up on an elbow and clicked his fingers. His jeans vanished, revealing his long, lithe limbs, clad only in tight black briefs. 

“Yours too?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale nodded, blushing all the way to his hairline. He began unfastening his buttons, but those clever fingers took over, making quick work of his flies and helping him slip out of his gabardines. Aziraphale reached for them, but they were plucked out of his hand and carefully folded and placed on the carpet. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, wondering if he were allowed to express his gratitude at long last. But Crowley was distracted. 

"Oh, fuck, sweetheart," he said, sliding down his body on a trail of kisses. "Been wanting these thighs." Teeth sank gently into the delicate skin inside his left upper leg, and then Crowley moved lower to divest him of his socks. Those elegant hands ran up his shins, thighs, ghosted over his drawers. Crowley's eyes gleamed at him. "Can I keep going?" 

"I want," Aziraphale began, _sweetheart_ still reverberating in his chest. 

"Say it," Crowley said softly, eyes locked to his. 

"I want you naked. Oh, dear," he blurted, as Crowley grinned the widest grin he had ever seen, and shimmied out of his pants. 

Crowley moved forward, but Aziraphale now repeated his gesture from earlier, stopping him with a raised hand. "Please. Let me look at you." 

Crowley's pupils dilated. "Anything you like." He stretched himself out, all the elegant splendour of him. Aziraphale was pierced to his soul by this casual display of vulnerability, and Crowley’s obvious desire for him, unashamed, even proud. 

"Oh, my darling, how beautiful you are," Aziraphale gasped, suddenly urgent with need. He found himself panting as though following intense exertion. 

"'m all right, I suppose." 

"False modesty, as usual." Before he could lose his courage, Aziraphale wiggled out of his own underthings. “Now come here.” 

Crowley laid himself gently back on top of Aziraphale, and oh, the hot press of his body everywhere was the purest magic. Real magic, the kind that counted. A serpentine tongue wound its way along Aziraphale's ear as Crowley moved, very slowly, rocking their bodies together in a maddening undulation. Aziraphale gasped and clutched at his back. 

"What now, angel?" 

"Can we...just like this?" He canted his hips upward and a little sideways, until he nudged against Crowley. 

"Just like this," Crowley said into his neck, lifting his hips to align them further. "Oh yeah. Definitely. We can definitely do that." 

Aziraphale moaned and ran his hands through Crowley's hair. Crowley bore down on him from above, his weight holding Aziraphale grounded, the way he had always done: his foundation, his tie to the Earth, to his true home. He felt secure, and yet amid all the gorgeous sensation, he was flying. Aziraphale craned his neck to watch as Crowley rocked his hips with almost unbearably erotic movements, grinding himself against Aziraphale over and over. Aziraphale had never been so hard, had never been lavished with such glorious attention. It had never felt so right. 

The slow rutting of Crowley's pelvis hollowed out his abdomen, tensed the muscles of his belly and thighs, and Aziraphale ran his hands down Crowley's body to feel him working, to feel the sweat breaking out between his shoulderblades, the flex of his arse as he rolled with increasing intensity, seeking Aziraphale's pleasure and his own. 

Crowley was watching him, too, the golden glint of his eyes traveling Aziraphale's face, lingering on his eyes, his parted lips. He ducked his head for a kiss, and Aziraphale whined into his mouth as Crowley lost the rhythm but gave him so much desire in the thrust of his tongue, the rumble in his throat. 

Aziraphale tried to meet Crowley's movements now as he moved faster, the pressure and desire building in him, the heat of friction so good and yet not quite enough, when Crowley brought one hand up to his face, slowly let out his long tongue, and licked his palm. Then he reached down to take them both in hand. The thrill of it was instantaneous and perfect, mind and heart and body united in a singular moment of glory. For Crowley had taken them together in his hand, and what could be more beautiful, more perfect than that? And the sensation of it! The sweet soft skin of Crowley against him and Crowley's elegant hand, hard and knowing, gentle and relentless. Home and held, he flew. 

Aziraphale soared, gulping great breaths of their mingled scent, his heart thrilling and rising with joy. The great golden warmth of love crested inside him, molten and brilliant, and he gripped Crowley's smooth, straining flanks, arching against him in exquisite tension. And then he plunged into release, a slow burst of sweetness so intense it ached, like biting into a honeycomb. 

"Always wondered." Aziraphale opened his eyes to see Crowley regarding him with rapture and fascination. 

"What have you always wondered, my dear?" he said. His voice was a bit hoarse. Oh, goodness, what sounds had he been making? 

"Still got it. Even now. Sweaty and fucked out. You're glowing with it." 

Aziraphale smiled. "I'm not at all surprised to know that you've made me glow. I certainly feel like it." 

Crowley made a consternated face. "I didn't. 'S not me." Aziraphale shivered as Crowley gently released him and raised his hand, shining, to gesture. "You've always got it. Never goes away, not even in the throes. Now I know." 

Aziraphale shifted under him, his glance drifting downward bashfully under the intensity of Crowley's wonder. Crowley was still hard against him, his chest and belly heaving with his arousal. 

It would not do. He took Crowley's sticky hand in his and raised it to his lips. 

Crowley's eyes grew wide. "Angel!" 

Aziraphale smiled. "I think you'll find that whatever 'it' it is I've got, I'm still very much the same person you've always known." He put Crowley's fingers into his mouth, savouring the flavours of himself and Crowley, mingling together in perfect balance. 

Crowley gave a broken cry and thrust against him, a wild desire distorting the shape of his beautiful mouth, drawing his brows into a needy frown. 

Withdrawing Crowley's fingers from his mouth, Aziraphale murmured, "Yes, my dear," and wrapped his arms around Crowley's narrow back, pulling him down and raising his hips up to meet him. "Against me. Just like that." 

He thought he had never been so happy as in this moment. The soaring joy he had felt before had been keen and glorious, but this was a pleasure more profound. Crowley needed him so deeply, and he could finally provide. 

High, strangled sounds emerged from Crowley's throat, his face pressed wetly against Aziraphale's shoulder. His serpentine hips rolled and Aziraphale's hands glided down over silken skin to his buttocks, pressing firmly down as he pushed up into Crowley's urgent need. 

"Oh, my darling. Anthony. Yes, yes." It felt so good to say the words. To say them out loud. Even to say "yes" to Crowley-- Anthony-- about anything at all, was a shimmering delight. But the lambent freedom of claiming him by his name, of calling him beloved, filled Aziraphale with a gift deeper than flight. He was at peace. 

He remembered the hours he'd spent crafting the unsent letter, the careful and honest self-revelation of it, and, into Crowley's ear, he spoke again. 

"You own me, body and soul. I am, have always been, utterly devoted to you. I can think of no happiness without you. I would do everything to make you happy. I am yours, darling, yours." 

Crowley cried out and claimed Aziraphale in a wild, open kiss, spilling his passion between them in a ragged series of desperate thrusts. 

As Crowley panted into his neck, his slight weight settling into Aziraphale's body like it was always meant to be there, Aziraphale found his own face was wet with tears. He pressed Crowley tighter against him, kissed the side of his face, pushed damp strands of hair away from his brow. 

After a few moments, they both had quieted, and Crowley propped himself up on his elbows. He met Aziraphale's eyes for an instant, kissed him softly, and then reached over to the table to pull the tea towel free from beneath the serving plate. "Made a mess," he muttered, and stroked it over Aziraphale's belly. 

Watching complacently as Crowley kept his eyes on his work, Aziraphale luxuriated in the sensation of the soft cloth moving over his skin. Crowley cleaned him up diligently, leaving no traces, and then saw to himself. Rising from the sofa, he pulled the paisley throw over Aziraphale to cover him up to the chest. Aziraphale reveled in being so tenderly cared for. 

Naked, Crowley walked to the kitchen, treating Aziraphale to a view he had not enjoyed in several thousand years. He sighed contentedly and settled back into the cushions as he heard the kettle being switched on, cups rattling. Trust Crowley to do it the human way. 

It would take time, he knew, for Crowley to absorb what he'd said to him, and to respond to it. Crowley had waited so long for him; Aziraphale could only do the same. But he had a feeling Crowley would rise to the occasion. He often was hasty, after all. 

"Peckish, angel?" Crowley called from the kitchen. 

"I could eat," Aziraphale said. 

Crowley barked a laugh. "You can always eat. What do you fancy? Sandwich?" 

''Oh, how very kind of you. Yes, that would be lovely. Jam, if you please.'' 

''Of course, Madame. Your victuals will be served presently.'' 

Chuckling to himself, Aziraphale drifted to the soothing clatter of tea-making, and then Crowley was there with a perfect cuppa, and his favorite chipped yellow Wedgwood plate, two neat slices of buttered bread and a knife. "Figured you'd want the fancy flowery stuff." 

"Thank you so much, my dear." Aziraphale reached for the knife. 

"Nuh-uh. Mine," Crowley retorted, picking up the pot of jam and spreading it thickly. 

"You really are indulging me most dreadfully." 

Crowley's eyes flicked to his face, then back down to the sandwich as he set its lid on, pressing it down gently. "You've done enough today." He cut it deftly into rectangles, then squares, and handed one to Aziraphale. "All right?" 

"Perfect," Aziraphale said with total sincerity. 

While he ate, Aziraphale felt Crowley's eyes fixed on him, as ever, with proprietary tenderness. Now, though, he was free to return the gaze. He swallowed. So did Crowley. 

Crowley dropped his eyes and fiddled with the remaining sandwich squares. "What you said. Before. You know I'm --" His face shifted from carefully neutral to slightly pained. "Yours. Always been yours. Will be. Long as you want me." 

Aziraphale sat up, reached over to take his hand, stopping his fiddle and clatter. Crowley looked up at him then, more confidently as Aziraphale's thumb pressed into his palm. 

"I do want you," Aziraphale said, meeting his eyes with confidence of his own, surprising himself but carrying on. After his earlier unburdenings, after the agony of bliss they had shared together, this suddenly felt as easy as a walk in the park. "I want you to stay, here, with me, for as long as you like. Not just for lockdown." He took a breath. Crowley had said he could have anything he liked, if he would but ask for it. "Will you make a home here, with me?" 

Crowley's smile was like the sunrise. "One shag and you want to shack up. Always knew you were a giant lesbian." 

"Crowley!" 

"'Course I'll move in, Aziraphale. Stay as long as you like." Crowley raised their joined hands and kissed Aziraphale's knuckles. "All you ever had to do was ask." 

Crowley turned his hand over and pressed his lips to Aziraphale's wrist, teasing the tender skin of his inner forearm. Aziraphale blushed and felt the heat in him stir again. "You -- you know I couldn't. Ask that is. Before." 

"I know. Know you wanted to." Aziraphale's eyes jerked back to Crowley's. "Yep. You're an open book, sweetheart." Crowley leant forward and bit gently at Aziraphale's inner elbow, sending a shiver down his spine. 

“Mmm, Anthony,” Aziraphale murmured. 

Anthony’s mouth stopped its wicked wandering along Aziraphale’s tender skin. He looked up, eyes narrowing. "Angel. It's been eighty years since you’ve heard the name, and you’ve never once called me that." 

"Didn't you want me to?" 

"Never really thought about it, actually. Made it up for humans, they want first names, you know, unless you're an actual rock star. But then..." 

"But then.” Aziraphale sank his hand into the tousled rusty hair. “Do you like it? Anthony?" 

Anthony leaned in and nuzzled Aziraphale’s neck. The prickle of sharp teeth made Aziraphale gasp. “I’ll get used to it,” Anthony chuckled. Abruptly, he pulled back and stood up, dusting crumbs off his naked knees. "Now, let me slip into something more comfortable." 

"More comfortable? But you're not wearing anything at all," Aziraphale said, unable to keep the regret out of his voice at the thought of Anthony getting dressed again so soon. 

Anthony moved over to where he'd left his bag and flicked it open, rummaging around. "Chilly in here. Ah." He plucked out a colorful length of silk and slipped it over his shoulders -- a dressing gown, 1920s, birds of paradise on an indigo ground. Spectacular. 

''I imagined you the sort of person who'd waltz around naked if they had nowhere to be.'' Aziraphale let his gaze wander over Anthony’s lovely long thighs as they emerged from the slit in the gown’s ruching, a brilliant marigold that matched the demon’s eyes. 

''Imagined me naked a lot, did you?'' 

Aziraphale tilted his head to better display his lashes. ''Once and again, mayhap.'' 

''Can't wait to find out what else goes on in your head...'' 

''You beast, you impugn my honour.'' He pressed his hand to his heart. 

"I'll impugn a lot more than that if you want,'' Anthony said wryly. 

Aziraphale presented a theatrically shocked gasp just to hear Anthony laugh. 

"Now," Anthony said, gathering plates and cups and heading for the kitchen, "let me see about the washing up." 

Aziraphale thought about telling Anthony he needn't bother, but he didn't. Anthony knew that, and of course Anthony appreciated the opportunity to deflect the more challenging emotions of the moment, and of course Anthony relished looking after him. 

On the strength of that thought, and all that had gone before, Aziraphale wrapped the worn paisley throw around his shoulders and stood up from the sofa. There on his desk, in eyeshot the whole time while they had been (his brain thrilled to the phrase) making love, was the letter. Aziraphale stroked over the fine cream laid paper of the envelope, the ridges of his fingers catching on the minute textural imperfections. He picked up the quill, too, pondering. He might have many chances now to secure more of Anthony’s feathers. Even better, he might at last plunge his hands into Anthony’s plumes, stroke him, groom him, care for him. 

He went round his desk to a small cabinet on one of the back shelves. There was a small wooden _senet_ box, inlaid with neat rows of turquoise squares, from 18th Dynasty Egypt. A few dozen years after they had dined together at Petronius’ restaurant, Anthony had given it to him with a casual "found this, angel, thought you might like it". Aziraphale knew he had been thanking him for the oysters, but of course he’d never mentioned it. 

Golden warmth suffused him again as he handled the letter. All his long-buried love, that had overrun him while writing this, and now he was free to feel it, even to speak it. And Anthony had known it, probably from the first. And had never given up. 

Aziraphale opened the box gently, reinforcing the faience inlays with a fresh miracle. He laid the letter inside atop the gaming pieces, thinking fondly of the moment two thousand years before when he'd looked up from the terni lapilli board to see Anthony in his laurels and his frown and felt his whole evening cheered immeasurably. 

He tucked the letter away, closed the box, and put it back on the shelf, placing the quill on top. Then he turned to see what his beloved was up to in the kitchen. 

**Author's Note:**

> So much gratitude to [equestrianstatue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/) for her enthusiastic and encouraging beta.
> 
> * * *
> 
> We both absolutely love [This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7zluBxv2Z0) by Talking Heads. It is devastatingly romantic and we will not be gainsaid. Melissa Ferrick's [Drive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQ5krgc2I3I) also served some inspiration and is near unbearably erotic.
> 
> This story also has a [playlist](https://ileolai.tumblr.com/tagged/fic%20playlist).
> 
> "Until then, I am, and ever shall be, yours," -- musical theater nerds and/or American history buffs will recognize this closing salutation from John and Abigail Adams' correspondence. Laura couldn't resist it, and she doesn’t think Aziraphale could either.
> 
> [Flora’s Interpreter](https://archive.org/details/florasinterprete00haleiala/page/80/mode/2up), if you want to go down the rabbit hole of Victorian flower meanings. Hawthorn means hope. The accompanying verse reads:  
>  _  
> Gay was the love of paradise he drew  
>  And pictured in his fancy; he did dwell  
> Upon it till it had a life; he threw  
> A tint of Heaven athwart it -- who can tell  
> The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell,  
> That bound him to that vision?  
> _  
>  _[Prometheus,](http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?&action=GET&textsid=36968)_[ James Gates Percival](http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?&action=GET&textsid=36968) (the full text of which ileolai pronounces “Aziraphale as fuck”)
> 
> [Welsh cakes](https://www.visitwales.com/en-us/things-do/food-drink/welsh-food/traditional-welsh-cakes-recipe) are one of the many treats seen in the lockdown video. Laura has never tasted them, but now has aspirations.
> 
> [Waitrose](https://www.waitrose.com/ecom/shop/browse/groceries/food_cupboard/jam_honey_and_spreads/jam/speciality_jam) doesn’t do organic rose-and-lavender-infused strawberry jam, but they totally should.
> 
> [Inspiration for Crowley’s dressing gown](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/153192824801006361/)
> 
>  _[Senet](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/544775)_[ box](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/544775). We wanted a terni lapilli box but it turns out there aren’t any. We don’t know if the game was never presented in boxes or if none have survived. [More info.](https://ileolai.tumblr.com/post/623800338954223616)
> 
> [Aziraphale's slippers](https://www.1860-1960.com/xs0084p0.html)
> 
> The reference to Sancerre is from a particular [Dylan Moran skit](https://youtu.be/OK8uPFwL4Xk?t=70), as Ileolai believes they haven’t wrote a Good Omens fic until they’ve alluded to it somehow.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Please, Mr. Postman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25410130) by [CopperBeech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech)




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